


Shadows (Alternate Version)

by orphan_account



Series: Midnight [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-26
Updated: 2013-03-26
Packaged: 2017-12-06 13:56:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 5,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/736443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lestrade goes on assignment and maybe doesn't make it out alive...the moments he fights for his life whilst thinking of going home to Mycroft.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Shadows (Alternate)

**Author's Note:**

> I felt awfully guilty for killing Lestrade in "Shadows" so I decided to write and alternate ending. Pick your poison.

He lay on the damp grass, back to the ground. Above him stood a man, gun trained straight at his head. He knew this was the end. Dammit, he knew it was going to end this way. Didn’t he tell Mycroft as much before he left London?

He wasn’t sure whether to try to plead for his life or to let the inevitable happen. Seconds of indecision slipped by as the man above him circled, gun still at the ready. Where the hell was his team?

In his mind’s eye, all he could see was Mycroft and their last moments together before he took off on this ill-fated trip.

***

“Do you have to go, Gregory? Is there no one else who can go on this assignment?” Mycroft queried softly. Greg continued to packed his bag. The line of questioning struck him as odd coming from Mycroft. Did he know something Greg didn't?

“Myc, I have to go. It’s my team. How would it look if I stayed behind? I know it's dangerous but I promise to be safe. Standard police stuff, that's all. There's nothing to worry about."

“Damn them Gregory. I don’t care about them. I care about you. You are putting yourself in harm’s way and it is totally unnecessary.” Greg turned slightly, catching a glimpse of Mycroft’s face. His eyes were drawn and Greg could see the anger and fear beginning build behind them. 

He shoved a few more shirts in his bag, along with the charger for his mobile, before he turned to fully face Mycroft. “I have to go. I can’t send my team into danger and avoid it myself. That is not what a DI does.” He stepped forward and took one of Mycroft’s hands in his own, covering it somewhat with the other and raising it to his lips for a small kiss. With another smaller step forward, he moved his hand to the side of Mycroft’s face and spoke again. “I know how to handle myself. If things go south, I can handle it.”

Mycroft seemed to soften a bit but his response betrayed the torrent of emotions flooding through him. “Gregory, something about this doesn't feel right. I am begging you to stay. Stay with me where it is safe.”

Greg was momentarily stunned. Mycroft wasn’t usually forthcoming with so much emotion, declarations of love and dependence. This man was the epitome of English strength and fortitude. His position was one that required the ability to sacrifice a few for the good of many. He was no stranger to the idea of loss or danger and yet here he stood, confessing a dependence on Greg he never thought possible.

“Mycroft, there's nothing to worry about. There's no more danger in this assignment than in the ones I usually take. I know the possible outcomes and I have no intention of coming home in a body bag.” With that, he turned back to his bag and zipped it up, heading for the bedroom door. He needed to leave now to catch the train to Northumberland. Mycroft seemed glued to the spot in which he stood. Greg quickly turned back and pressed a chaste kiss to his lover’s cheek. “I’ll see you in a few weeks Myc. Love you.” With that he turned and headed out.

***

In those few seconds that Greg lay on the ground, his decision was made. He couldn’t go down without a fight. He’d never forgive himself for it. What would Mycroft think? He slowly began to scramble up to a sitting position, trying to formulate an escape plan. How could he get out of this, alive? Damned being injured; if he was shot, as long as he lived, he could deal with it. He’d do anything to get home to Mycroft.

“Hey, hey, let’s take it easy, yeah?” Think Greg, think dammit. Hostage situations, what do you do? Soothing words, slow movements, nothing alarming. 

“Listen pig, I’ve got you. One bullet straight between the eyes and I’ll walk out of here. You’ll go home in pieces.” The man’s eyes were ruthless, hard, cold, and unrelenting. Fuck, now what?

“You don’t want to do this. They will catch you. In addition to every other charge you’re facing, you’ll add the murder of a detective inspector to the list. Think about it.” Okay, not quite begging, yet. Greg scanned his surroundings. Really there was nowhere for him to go. He sat on a grassy hill in the middle of an open field, with a line of trees just to one side, a quiet country road to the other. There was no one in sight, so Greg focused on his assailant, plan in mind. If he could get the man to take a step or two forward, he might be able to lunge at his knees and take him down. He’d have to do it quickly and at just the precise moment, as the man was about to squeeze the trigger and put a bullet in his head. If he missed the timing by just a fraction of a second…

“Nah, nothing to think about here. Decision made.” And with that, the man took the small step forward that Greg was anticipating.

***

Two years ago, Greg moved into Mycroft’s opulent flat. The décor was traditional old English, stuffy, over-upholstered, and annoyingly formal. All Greg wanted was a comfortable couch he could wallow on while watching telly. Damn, did the man even have a television?

It took a few months to work out a routine which suited them both. They settled into a comfortable life, filled with their work and quiet moments stolen here and there.Greg finally felt like his life was exactly the way he’d envisioned. The only caveat was his daughter, who he wanted so desperately to love Mycroft as much as he did. He’d introduced them, but it was clear that Mycroft was uncomfortable around her and that she carried some chip on her shoulder, believing Mycroft had been the reason for her parents’ divorce. He decided not to push it. It would come with time and that was one thing he had with Mycroft, time.

He thought about the ring he’d bought. It was almost a month before this assignment that dragged him north that he’d decided to propose. He was going to do it right after he returned. He had it all planned out, nothing elaborate because Mycroft would never go for that, but something simple and intimate. A nice dinner out at Myc’s favorite, then a quiet evening in, enjoying a bottle of wine, snuggling on the sofa, Mycroft leaning against him, reading a book and Greg watching football or something on telly (not that he would be paying attention). He envisioned this warm scene, with him getting up for a refill of their wine and coming back from the kitchen, with ring box instead of the bottle, kneeling before the sofa, asking Mycroft to spend the rest of their lives together.

The ring itself was simple. A gold band, strikingly similar to the one Mycroft wore on his right hand, the two differences being a titanium stripe through the center and the inscription on the inside. _“MH, GL Together”_

He had to get home to make it happen.

***

Greg lunged at the mans knees in the split second before he squeezed the trigger. A single shot sounded out as the man lost his balance and crashed to the ground, somehow now entangled in a very angry and determined Detective Inspector Lestrade.

Grappling on the ground for control of the gun, the two men fought like lions ripping apart their prey. Greg managed to get the upper hand and the gun, whipping it around, shooting the assailant in the side of the neck. Blood squirted from the wound with every pulse of the man's heart as his life withered away. It took Greg only s heartbeat to recover from the shock of killing the man before he began to realize something was very wrong. He felt dizziness and then a stab of nauseating pain only to look down his own chest and understand that the first bullet from the gun had indeed made met its mark, although not in the exact location intended. The blood covering his shirt was not just from the man fallen beside him, but also that of his very own.

He staggered to his feet, determined to make it to the tree line. His team had to be there somewhere, right? Were they that far behind him as he had chased down the subject? God why was everything get fuzzy of all a sudden? And so cold. Why was he so cold? He made it the trees before his body gave out underneath him, the last sight he remembered one of the bright blue sky above him.

***

Sally heard the shot from beyond the road side. Fuck, she thought. Greg hadn’t taken his gun. She bolted towards the open field and the faint echo of the shot, followed by a dozen other Yarders who’d been following Lestrade and the suspect.

The scene before her made her stumble and fall to her knees, gasping for breath. The assailant lay on his back on the grass, eyes and mouth wide open, a gaping whole in the side of his neck. Blood was pouring out of the wound. In his hand was a small ripped remnant of a shirt, not his own, drenched in blood.

Gregory Lestrade was nowhere to be found.


	2. The Call (Alternate)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock gets the call and someone has the tell Mycroft...and John has to tell Sherlock to stop being a prat.

“You okay?”

“Yes.” The door closed gently, Sherlock now safely encased in his room. What the hell was happening? Had he just received a call informing him that Greg Lestrade was missing, presumed dead? Dead? Mycroft. He needed to call Mycroft.

***

“Missing, presumed dead? What do you mean presumed dead? How? What happened?” John was baffled and stunned. How the hell could Greg be dead?

“Yes, John. They believe he was killed by the suspect he was chasing.” Sherlock sounded annoyed. “I told him to take me. Dammit. Stupid, Lestrade, stupid.”

“So why presumed? Didn’t they search for his body? And you know that Greg knew the dangers and chose to go anyway.” John sank into his armchair trying to comprehend the news. Greg Lestrade, his good friend, was gone, missing and the Yard believed him dead.

“Those idiots at the Yard couldn’t find a blade of grass in an overgrown field.” John snorted. How typical of Sherlock to complain about the competency of the Yard even at a time like this.

“What about Mycroft? How did he handle it?” 

“I don’t know.”

“What?”

“I don’t know.”

“What the hell does that mean Sherlock?”

“It means that I told him and he hung up on me without a word.”

“So, in shock then. Have you spoken to him since?” 

“No.”

“Sherlock, you need to be there for Mycroft. Call him or text him. Hell, go to his house. He needs you, now more than ever.” How the hell could Sherlock not know this?

“No John, Mycroft does not need me. He will deal with it on his own. That’s how we are.”

John sighed. He would never understand the way the Holmes’ dealt with emotions. Well, maybe he could. Avoidance seemed to be the default technique.

“Sherlock, Mycroft has just lost his partner. No matter what the two of you say or how you act, I know that both of you are capable of love. Mycroft loved Greg and now Greg is gone. He needs support. You are his brother and he needs you.” Seriously, had these two people ever been shown love by their parents or were they raised by wolves?

“John, don’t presume to tell me what my brother needs. He and I are more alike than either of us cares to admit and I know him. He needs to be alone.”

John breathed in a heavy sigh. Slowly he rose from his chair and stood, taking a few minutes to watch Sherlock stand at the window and stare out onto Baker Street.

Quietly he spoke, “I know if I lost you, I would need as much support as I could get to make it through.” And with that, he turned and headed to the bedroom, the one he now shared with Sherlock.

Sherlock only slightly twisted his head at the statement and listened as John left the room. Sentiment. A baffling wonder he may never figure out.

Nevertheless, he pulled his phone from his trouser pocket and quickly typed out a text.

_I am here for you brother. You need only ask. SH_


	3. Coming To

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lestrade wakes up...

When Lestrade came to, it was to the sound of quiet, persistent beeps and muffled shuffling. He slowly opened his eyes, taking in the scene around him. Lots of tubes and lines and machines lined his bedside. Oh right, hospital then. Must have made it out alive, he thought. Thank God. Over the beeps and purrs of the machines, it was still too quiet in his room. He looked around slowly and was surprised that no one was in the room with him. He thought Mycroft would have been there at some point, but there was no sign. There was no overcoat on the back of the chair or umbrella leaned against the wall. He could only assume he was in London and near Mycroft. Wasn’t that a logical thing to think? What had happened? The last he remembered was passing out in a field somewhere in Northern England.

A nurse shuffled into the room at that moment, interrupting his train of thought.

“Hello dear, good to see you awake. How are you feeling?”

“Thirsty. In pain.” Greg managed to whisper, his voice croaking from disuse. How long had he been out? He realized he really had no clue where he was or what day it was.

“We’ll get you something. I’ll call the doctor. Do you remember how you were injured or how you got here?” She turned around to the tray beside the table and poured out a cup of water.

“Not really.” Taking a small sip of water from the cup, he continued. “Last thing I remember I was in a field. I think I was shot.”

“You were. Do you know how long ago that was?” She busied herself with checking his vitals and readings on the machines.

“Not a clue.” It couldn’t have been more than a day or so, he thought. His team must have found him and brought him here.

“You’ve been here almost a week. Can you tell me your name?” What a strange question, he thought.

“Did I suffer a head injury too?” The nurse shook her head. “Okay, well, that’s good. It’s Greg. Greg Lestrade.”

“Okay, Mr Lestrade. Let me get you that pain medication and I’ll be back to check on you in a few minutes.” And with that she left.

Greg sat puzzled for a minute. He’d been here a week already? Where was here anyway?  
 


	4. What Should We Tell Mycroft?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh Sherlock, stop being a jerk.

The next few days were pure agony for Sherlock, but even more torturous for Mycroft. Without a body to prove Greg’s death, Mycroft seemed to shift constantly between gut-wrenching despair and gleeful hope. He’d insisted on a more thorough search of the area in which Greg was last known to be with the assailant. A trail of blood was found leading to the tree line, but nothing after that. The search had provided no additional clues as to Greg’s whereabouts but bodies just don’t disappear into thin air, now do they? Mycroft didn’t want to think about the possibilities of why a body would just vanish.

John insisted that he and Sherlock play nursemaid to Mycroft. It annoyed him to no end but for the sake of peace in Baker Street he went along with John’s wishes. So they visited Mycroft every day for the first few, who kept himself to his office, spending the nights in the small adjoining room that functioned as a makeshift bedroom, and refusing to go to his and Greg’s flat.

Within days, it became obvious that Mycroft was slipping into a pit of despair, no longer eating or sleeping with much regularity. Dark circles had taken up permanent residence under his eyes and there was no energy about him, no spark in his eyes, his movements slowed so much that it looked as if it took every ounce of strength he possessed to raise a tea cup to his lips. That is, when John could get him to consume anything. The depression that filled his every fiber was evident to John but even more startling to Sherlock. It seemed to take a deep root somewhere inside of Sherlock, as if it were a puzzle he couldn’t quite solve.

“Sherlock.”

“Hmmm.”

“Mycroft needs help - professional help. More than we can give him.”

“He’ll never do it, John. Too much alike, remember?”

“Well, then you need to talk to him. He has to talk about Greg. He can’t keep going this way. He’s going to hurt himself.”

“No, he won’t. But I will try to talk to him.”


	5. Fully Awake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg starts to piece together what happened and realizes Mycroft hasn't come to his rescue.

Greg drifted in and out of consciousness for a few more days before the doctors saw fit to reduce the pain medication to a level where he could sustain being awake for more than 10 or 15 minutes at a time. When he finally came round, to full wakefulness, he discovered another week had gone by. That was two weeks total. He didn’t remember if Mycroft had been to visit or anyone else from the Yard. Hell, he hadn’t even managed to be conscious enough to find out where exactly he was or how he got here. He buzzed the nurse.

“Oh hello Mr Lestrade. How are you feeling today? How is the pain?”

“Feeling much better on both accounts. Listen, can you tell me which hospital is this?”

“Northumbria. Where did you expect to be?”

“Northumbria? Christ, how did I get here? Has anyone been to visit me?” Greg was starting to feel a little ball of panic rise in his chest. He didn’t understand how he had gotten here. Surely if he was brought here first, that would have been fine, but as soon as he was stable enough, Mycroft would have had him transferred to a hospital in London.

“No vistors Mr Lestrade. We only found out your name a few days ago when you woke for the first time. You came in with no identification.” Her tone was flat but her eyes seemed to betray the story that was lurking beneath those innocuous words.

“Who brought me in?”

“We don’t know. We found you outside the hospital. You’d apparently been dumped on the kerb. Lucky thing too, you were in very bad shape when you came in.”

Christ, Greg couldn’t make sense of what she was saying. He had no recollection between the time he’d been shot and waking up in the hospital.

“We think you must have been injured a few weeks before you were dumped here. Whoever had you tried to take care of your wounds, but once they became infected, it was clear they couldn’t do it any longer.”

Greg swallowed hard. A couple of weeks? He’d been “missing” for two weeks before he’d been admitted to the hospital and had spent almost two weeks in hospital. Four weeks. Four weeks of his life, just gone in an instant.

“Look, has anyone by the name of Mycroft Holmes contacted you about me? Maybe his brother, Sherlock Holmes? Has anyone at all called inquiring about me?”

“No Mr Lestrade. Not that I know of, but I will check with the rest of the nurse staff. Your lunch should be here soon. The doctor will round later today as well. You might be close to being discharged. I would ask him about it.”

Greg was stunned. Neither Mycroft or Sherlock had made any inquiries about him, which by extension meant no one at the Yard. The only conclusion Greg could come to was that they thought he was dead. He didn’t have any personal effects in the room – apparently his wallet was taken by whoever dropped him here and his mobile probably was lost in the shuffle of things. He had to get word to Mycroft or the Yard that he was here. All he wanted was to go home.


	6. Enough!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh poor Mycroft, coming apart at the seams. *This portion of the work is a direct quotation from earlgreywithcream's "Echoes".

_“Mycroft.” he snaps back into reality at the harsh tone in his brother’s voice. “Are you back?”_

_“Yes, I do apologize, it was not my intention to..drift.” he force a smile that he hopes will fool his brother but knows all too well that it will not._

_“We need to talk.” he sees the concern in his brothers eyes but slowly shakes his head._

_“About what exactly?”_

_“Lestrade.” Mycroft’s eyes narrow and he takes a step closer to Sherlock and looks him straight in the eyes._

_“He is no longer any concern of yours,” he keeps his voice steady and tries to keep his breathing even. “From now on you will stay out of this.”_  
He had had enough.*  



	7. Coming Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg comes back to London.

Sherlock’s phone rang, breaking the silence of Baker Street. Quiet had settled over the place, what with Lestrade gone and hardly any cases coming in, the constant vigil over Mycroft, and Sherlock’s own ruminations over the events of the last month. It was odd, he thought, that Greg’s body hadn’t yet been found, but all the evidence did seem to point to him being dead.

The ringing phone brought him back to the present, and he swooped his feet to the floor from the couch and snatched it up, answering gruffly. “Sherlock Holmes.”

“Mr Holmes?”

“Yes. Who is this?”

“I am Sarah from Northumbria Hospital. I am calling regarding a Mr Greg Lestrade.”

“Yes?” Sherlock sat straight up, shifting forward in his seat. He caught John’s eye and the concern there made John shut his paper, and lean towards Sherlock, wondering what the conversation was about.

“Mr Lestrade has been in our care for the last two weeks and was discharged today. He is on his way back to London and asked if I could call you to let you know. He said his first stop will be to see you.”

“I see. And why didn’t Mr Lestrade call me himself?” John’s eye opened wide. What was this about Lestrade?

“He doesn’t have a mobile and was rather eager to leave. He asked me as a favor.”

“I see.” What the hell was happening? “Thank you.” Sherlock disconnected the call and looked John square in the eyes. “It seems we are going to have a visitor.”

***

Within a few hours, a weary and weak Gregory Lestrade arrived on the doorstep to 221B Baker Street. He decided to start here because he knew that Sherlock and John would have the whole story on what had happened that day in Northumberland and they would not subject him to the emotional rollercoaster of a joyous reunion. He wasn’t as much of an idiot as Sherlock liked to think – he had worked it out that after he was shot, he’d been picked up, but whom he still wasn’t certain, but they had tried to care for him. Maybe they thought they could get a ransom for him, or maybe they were just sickos, but either way once he became too ill for them to care for him, he was unceremoniously dumped at the hospital and spent the better part of two weeks out of it.

After being assisted upstairs and into John’s chair with a hot cup of tea, he told the pair the story. Their relief was evident and they confirmed at least the first part of what he already knew. They truly thought he was dead, given the amount of blood at the scene and the fact there was no body. Although Sherlock thought it odd, he really had nothing else to go on other than “intuition” and being a man who trusted his senses, that little niggling feeling that something wasn’t quite right wasn’t enough.

John told Greg about Mycroft’s despair and his reaction to Greg’s disappearance and the three of them agreed it would be best to travel together to Mycroft’s to break the news.

Greg only knew that he was glad that he would be able to go home to Mycroft.

***  
Just as the trio was set to leave for Mycroft a few hours after Greg had arrived, Sherlock’s phone beeped again. He checked it – voice mail.

“John, Mycroft left me a voice mail.” His tone sounded strangely puzzled. Greg and John exchanged glance.

“Okay. What did he say?”

“I’m sorry.” Sherlock’s eyes widened as the realization dawned on him. Mycroft really wasn’t okay.

“Dear God Sherlock, we have to get to him. Now.”


	8. The End, but Only the Beginning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft faces his last moments and last memories with Greg.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I borrowed this text from earlgreywithcream's "Echoes" and modified it for my own purposes. Kinda like what Sherlock did with Moriarity - for his own purposes.

Mycroft finally dared to go home. 

He could still smell Gregory. Everywhere in the flat. He was everywhere and it made Mycroft feel sick to his stomach. As he made his way slowly through the flat, he thought of all the times spent there with Greg. Dinner at the table in the kitchen, lazy evenings spent curled together on the couch, times in the garden while Greg had a smoke, laughs shared together in the bathroom tub, hours of making love in the bed they shared all flashed through his mind like a movie he'd seen ages ago but couldn't quite remember clearly.

He stopped by the edge of the bed and pulled out his mobile. 

He flipped through the address book until he found the number he was looking for.

Sherlock.

He pressed the call button and held the phone to his ear listening to the fast beeps that told him the line was busy before he was sent to voice mail. Good he though as he listened to the standard message telling him the number could not be reached. He drew a deep breath and let it out slowly.

“I'm sorry.” he ended the call and removed the battery before carelessly dropping it on the floor.

He sank to his knees and rummaged through the top beside drawer, pulling out a box. A ring he had bought Gregory for their engagement, a very simple ring really. A simple titanium ring with a green line dividing the ring in two parts. He remember how he first had thought it a cheap gift, but he had been instantly drawn to it, thought it perfect for Gregory.

He rose and sank to edge of the bed. It was in the same state as he left it. A complete mess, the blanket halfway down on the floor, a pillow thrown across the room in frustration over another sleepless night.

He rolled the ring between his fingers. He closed his fingers around it and nodded slowly. He slipped it on and looked at it. It was too big for him, not a surprise there really, probably wouldn't fit his thumb properly either but right now he couldn't care less.

He nodded slowly and reached towards one of Gregory's bedside drawers.

He knew Gregory would have disliked that he looked through his drawer but he really just wanted one item and he knew exactly where to find it.

And he did. He held the cold, heavy object in his hands, weighing it and examining it with his eyes. He sat there for a while, just staring at the phone on the floor and the gun in his hand.

He had no idea how long he had been sitting there, just staring at nothing until he was jerked into now by the doorbell ringing through the flat.

He sobbed as he heard the desperate banging on the door and his brother's voice traveling through the flat.

He closed his hand firmly around the handle of the gun and lifted it to his temple. He felt the tears travel down his face but he really didn't care.

He closed his eyes tightly and his body shook violently. He heard the front door blow open and voices calling out to him. In that moment, it didn't matter.


	9. Saving Mycroft

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft receives a miracle that saves him, just in the nick of time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't Kill Mycroft. I just can't. I have a secret Mycroft crush. Along with the crush I have on Sherlock and Lestrade...

Neither banging on the door to Mycroft’s flat nor ringing the buzzer had elicited a response. What if they were too late? Sherlock took a step back and slammed his body against the door with as much force as he could muster. The door swung open and he rushed into the flat, quickly followed by John and Lestrade.

“Mycroft!” Both Sherlock and Greg shouted, as they ran through the flat. 

Reaching the door of the bedroom he shared with Mycroft, he whispered “Oh god”. Mycroft sat on the edge of the bed, facing away from the door with Greg’s gun lifted to his temple. Greg leapt across the room as Mycroft turned his head, eyes widening in shock as he took in the sight before him.

Greg grasped the gun gently, lowering it and taking it from Mycroft’s hand, as he slowly sank on his knees before the man. The gun clattered to the floor and Greg reached up with one hand to cup Mycroft’s face. “My God Myc, what are you doing?” He was breathless.

Sherlock and John stood at the door, taking in the scene before them.

“Greg. Greg.” Mycroft’s eyes wandered over Greg and he reached out, first touching Greg’s shoulder and then his face. “How?”

“Later, Mycroft, later. I love you. I’m here now and that’s all that matters.” Greg pulled Mycroft’s face towards his own and brushed a gentle kiss to his lips before leaning forward to press his forehead to Mycroft’s. At that Mycroft began to quietly sob as the realization of his lover begin alive began to sink in fully. Greg raised himself to his feet and crawled onto the bed beside Mycroft, gently pulling the man to him, until they both lay in the center, with Mycroft’s body to the side of Greg’s and his head buried in the warmth of Greg’s chest. He clung to Greg as if his life depended on it as he sobbed, because at that moment, his life did.


End file.
